Faking It by Nikki Bella
Tyler
“What this means,” I yelled for the third time, trying to make myself heard over the chattering row “is that you’ll be putting three thousand people out of work! That’s three thousand families on welfare, three thousand homes going into foreclosure and about six thousand kids going hungry!” I stared at Banks and the other board members, unable to keep my fists from clenching and unclenching.
“Please sit down, Mr. Harcourt,” sneered Banks, sat in his chair at the end of the huge, black, boardroom table. Through the glass wall, I could see the more junior office workers trying to pretend they couldn’t hear the shouting coming from within our closed meeting, “You’re exaggerating as usual, and you are missing a major point.”
I looked over each of the other men that sat around Banks. All of them wore expensive suits and were either overweight from expensive and excessive living, gray or white haired from age, or both. Banks was both, and his face carried a repulsively arrogant look of scorn, a take away from years of almost always being the richest man in the room. He was part of the old guard. One of my father’s longest-standing partners, and we never saw eye to eye.
I turned to the opposite end of the table, where the prey of these white-haired, dark-suited vultures sat. Mr. Hobbs and his son, Paul, of boat builders Hobbs & Son who, after not having their military contracts renewed, were now finding it hard to keep their business solvent in the current economic climate, building only luxury superyachts. Mr. Hobbs Sr. was well past retirement age and couldn’t hide it, yet he still wore a determined expression on his face and looked prepared to fight for the company he had spent his whole life building. Paul Hobbs, on the other hand, was nearing forty and had the look of someone that could see his comfortable lifestyle disappearing down the tubes with every dollar that Hobbs & Son went into the red. Both were also dressed in dark suits that, while still respectable, were worth nowhere near as much as those of my board members.
I needed a second to collect myself. Shouting at Banks and the rest of the board only ever served to make them dig their heels in and convince them that I was just a jumped up rich kid not fit to lick my father’s shoes, let alone fill them. I straightened my tie, ran my fingers through my hair and, just to piss them off, chose to remain standing. “Exactly what point am I missing, again, Mr. Banks?”
“We are in this deal together,” he replied. “As the 51% shareholder in HHC, and the son of this firm’s founder, you are as much responsible for the job losses at Hobbs & Son as anyone here.”
I opened my mouth to start yelling again when Henry Osborne, sitting beside me, placed a soft, plump hand on my arm and stood as well. He was the polar opposite of me. Short, rotund, balding, and pudgy-faced, hiding his brown eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles. Despite appearances, we were both thirty-eight, having graduated from Yale together. However, I stayed in shape with a vigorous work-out regimen and a love of extreme sports, while Henry didn’t. He was still my closest friend, though, as well as my attorney and business adviser. I nodded in response to his calming touch and sat.
“Remember, Tyler,” he said, expertly managing to be loud enough for the board and I to hear, as well as quiet enough to be mostly unintelligible to the boat builders at the other end of the room, “selling off the assets and real estate that Mr. Hobbs has managed to collect over the years should bring in just over a billion dollars right now. And they will most definitely be sold, whether it’s now, next year when the old man and his company go bankrupt, or the day after he dies and his son liquidates the entire concern. The only difference is that right now it will bring in five times more than next year, or whenever.”
“I know,” I hissed, “but it’s still too many poor bastards out of work.”
One of the less senior, but certainly fatter, members of the board made a predictable remark about making omelets and breaking eggs. I shot him a hateful look and he went silent. I’d like to see him try and actually make an omelet, the lazy asshole.
“This is how it’s done, Tyler,” insisted Banks, trying a more forgiving, paternal tone, “This is how we make our money, this is how your father made money...”
“Don’t mention my father to me!” I yelled, on my feet again and rounding on him. Mr. Hobbs and his son went wide-eyed at my outburst while, outside the office, HHC employees busied themselves faster, trying to not be seen eavesdropping. “I’ll be damned if I ever do business the way he did!” I saw Banks pale slightly and allowed myself a little smile of victory. A moment passed and I returned his voice to its more normal range. “Henry, tell the board about the plan we worked out.”
Henry cleared his throat and spoke to the whole room this time. “If HHC were to invest in Mr. Hobbs’s business, instead of selling off the assets” he began, “it would take around $100 million right now to increase the workforce and update his facilities to the point where they could be back in profit in three years. According to our projections, that’s a return for us of $50 million on top of our original investment in five years’ time.”
“Meaning Mr. Hobbs keeps his company and his workforce keeps their jobs. I’m sorry Hector,” I smiled at Banks, “it’s a lot less than a billion.” Paul Hobbs choked and coughed on the water he was drinking. “But it’s still profit for HHC, and I think both you and I can continue to survive without another billion dollars, don’t you?”